


Star Light, Star Bright

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gunplay, Historical, Love, M/M, Sexual Tension, Substitution Sex, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-09
Updated: 2009-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the end of WWII nears, new threats emerge among the Allied Nation-tans of the Big Three at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Potsdam_Conference">Potsdam Conference</a>. When Ivan threatens Alfred, Arthur does the only thing he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star Light, Star Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [The Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com).

_Potsdam, July 1945_

Ivan is going to be trouble. They've known that from the start. Arthur has, anyhow; it's sometimes hard to say what Alfred does and does not know. For instance, when Arthur tries to warn him that the alliance with Ivan might not work out the way Alfred wants, that he might not come through in the fight against Kiku, Alfred nods.

"I have the." Alfred looks off into the middle distance; Arthur fancies he's looking into a possible future it's hard to imagine, harder still to contemplate. Yet Alfred's voice is steady when he continues: "The A-bomb."

Then Alfred turns to Arthur, his smile bright again, his eyes clear. "The alliance is worth it, though, don't you think? Even if Ivan doesn't help against Japan, you—we needed him to defeat Germany. He was true to his word there."

Arthur doesn't miss the way Alfred changed the pronoun. He doesn't have time to consider the implications, though, because he is troubled by the way Alfred calls Kiku and Ludwig by their country names. He did this with Ludwig during the First Great War as well, though he used Ludwig's human name in the intervening years. It's not an aberration; when he had his rebellion all those years ago, Alfred did the same with Arthur. The distinction concerns Arthur. He has noted the way Ivan is always "Ivan" for Alfred, and he worries this war—or if not the war itself, then what is to come after it will break Alfred's heart. Arthur suspects the world may not be ready for a broken-hearted Alfred.

They've been quiet for a while when Arthur glances over at Alfred, who seems to be studying the clouds. Alfred doesn't look down from the sky, but he must sense Arthur's gaze because he says, "Are you still angry?"

Arthur feels his brow furrow. He can't imagine why he would be angry or at whom, so he hazards a guess. "With Ivan?"

"With me."

At that, Arthur turns to him fully. "Why would I be angry with you?"

Alfred continues to cloudgaze. The silence lengthens and Arthur is about to turn away, when Alfred says softly, "1776."

"Alfred." A strange feeling comes over Arthur. "I haven't been angry over that for quite some time. Whatever made you think of it?"

Alfred sighs. "You said—your boss said he'd never forgive me."

Another conflation. Though at least Alfred caught himself this time. Arthur watches the wisps of one cloud elongate; before they can break free, the wind pushes another formation into the first, white bleeding into white, becoming one. "I've moved on from that," Arthur says at last. He doesn't know how to explain to Alfred that bosses come and go, that it's important to pick and choose what you keep from them; Arthur suspects the memory of Alfred's first bosses is too dear to him still, and he thinks he has to keep them all.

With a nod that Arthur hopes is acceptance if not full understanding, Alfred looks down from the sky. His smile when he turns to Arthur this time is slower, not a wide flash but an easy curving of his lips. It suits him, Arthur thinks; he thinks he wouldn't mind seeing this sort of smile on Alfred's face more often. "I'm sorry it took so long for me to join you this time. My people…" Alfred trails off without apologizing for them. "Anyhow," his smile opens up, "we're together in this now, aren't we?"

Arthur takes a moment to study the slow dazzle of that smile, the sincerity woven into the brightness. His boy—it's been well over a century since Arthur could call him that, but that past is there between them and if Alfred wants to call it up now, Arthur will indulge him. His boy has grown up into a fine young man. Still growing, still a very young man, but a man now. Stronger and more confident than ever; but there's still an innocence that Arthur fears for. _Don't do it_, Arthur thinks. _Don't do it, Ivan. Don't break his heart._

The moment calls for something: a word, a gesture, something. Their eyes have met, their gazes entangled, Alfred's smile threaded through the entanglement. Arthur smiles back. It's not enough, really, but it will have to do.

  
A few evenings later, Ivan pulls out a bottle of vodka. Arthur counters with a bottle of port, and the three of them pass the hours in pleasant company on the verandah.

Alfred, who has been drinking from both bottles foolishly ("daringly," he insisted when Arthur tried to caution him; Ivan's chuckle appeared to serve only as encouragement), is leaning forward, one hand curled around his glass, the other propping up his chin as he listens raptly to Arthur and Ivan debate the finer points of documentary cinema, occasionally chiming in with his own thoughts on the art. Since American cinema is known for its fictional rather than nonfictional narratives, Arthur is pleased with the interest and knowledge Alfred is showing here.

"Star light star bright," Alfred says suddenly and quickly, almost breathlessly. The other two break off as Alfred half-rises and then falls back into his chair, his eyes focused on a point low in the night sky. "First star I see t'night. Wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish to-night!"

Arthur follows the trajectory of Alfred's gaze and sees the pinpoint sparkle. When he looks back at Alfred, he sees Alfred's face still upturned, his eyes closed, a furrow between his eyebrows as he concentrates; just like he did when he wished upon stars as a child. Arthur didn't know Alfred still played at that, but finds he isn't surprised. He smiles.

"I'm sorry," Alfred says when he opens his eyes again. "But s'important to make the wish soon 's you see the star, y'know. If another star appears, s'too late for your wish." Although he's enunciating as carefully as possible, there's no disguising the slur that has sneaked into his speech. He shakes his head, perhaps in sorrow for all those unwished wishes.

Ivan leans forward, propping his chin in his hand. "And what did you wish for, my friend?"

Alfred breaks into a wide grin. "Ah, I can't tell you _that_, Ivan! 'F I do, it won't come true!" He raises his glass to his mouth—then pulls back to eye it with disappointment, verifying that it really is empty. "Or." The furrow appears again and he turns to Arthur. "'Zat only for birthday wishes, when you blow out the cannels? _Can_-dles?"

"I think it's best to keep all your wishes close to your heart," Arthur hears himself say. He doesn't hear a slur in his own speech, but the fact that he's said such a fanciful thing in this company leads him to believe he may be close to exceeding his limits as well.

Alfred nods, then raises the empty glass again. When no liquid rushes into his mouth, he regards it mournfully—then lifts it higher to look at them through the bottom, as if it's a spyglass.

Ivan laughs, and again Arthur wants to tell him not to encourage Alfred like that. He reminds himself that Alfred is not a child, despite how he may act or appear sometimes. And then Alfred validates Arthur's faith, because when Ivan tilts the vodka bottle towards him in offer, Alfred shakes his head.

"Think 's time for bed for me. Sweet dreams 'n all that." His chair scrapes against the stone patio as he pushes it back, letting the table support his weight as he gets to his feet. "G'night, gennelmen." He offers each of them a sloppy grin in turn as he straightens. "Sweet dreams." He takes a few careful, cautious steps, laughing when he stumbles and bumps Ivan's chair. Ivan cups his elbow for support as Alfred sorts himself out. Mumbling a thanks, Alfred starts off again. At the door, he looks back over his shoulder to call "sweet dreams!" one more time; then flashing them a last grin, he disappears inside. It takes two tries for the door to close properly; even after it does, Arthur's gaze lingers. He wonders if he ought to have helped Alfred back to his room.

"You are worried about him."

Ivan's voice brings Arthur back to the terrace. "He's fine," Arthur says.

Ivan makes a non-committal sound. "What do you suppose he wished for?"

It irritates Arthur. He doesn't like the thought of Ivan intruding on Alfred's wishes. Not that it's much of a secret, really: "Peace. An end to the fighting."

"Hmm. I wonder." Ivan picks up the bottle of port. His tone suggests that he does not wonder at all, that he knows—or _thinks_ he knows something, with a clear implication that it is something Arthur does not know. The prickle of irritation reminds Arthur that he's had enough to drink, so he declines Ivan's offer.

Ivan puts down the port in favor of his own vodka, tipping the mouth of the bottle to his lips to drink straight from it. "If that really is his wish, I am the one who can make it come true for him."

Arthur's eyes narrow. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

Smiling again, Ivan shrugs. His smile is so different from Alfred's: Ivan is cool where Alfred is warm, dark where Alfred is bright; something lurks in Ivan's smile, cloaked and hidden where Alfred is open, naked. Arthur suppresses a shiver.

"I only mean that he needs me, if he is to—what is the expression his boss is so fond of? 'Turn the tide' against Kiku." Ivan takes another slow swig from his bottle.

Arthur wants to protest that Alfred has _him_, too; but Ivan is fully aware that they are equally allies and is, in all likelihood, baiting Arthur for his own amusement. So instead, Arthur reminds Ivan of what Alfred has hinted to them about his new weapon.

Ivan dismisses it with a shake of his head. "Even if he has such a thing, he will never use it."

"It will be dangerous for those who miscalculate what Alfred is capable of."

With that implacable smile of his, Ivan shakes his head again. "No. His boss will not do it."

Alfred's old boss wouldn't, that much is true. Arthur is not so sure about the new one. He has no desire to argue this with Ivan, though, so he saves his breath. Let Ivan make his own mistakes, as long as it doesn't affect the Allies.

Pushing his chair back from the table, Ivan rests the now-empty vodka bottle between his thighs, thumb caressing the curves as his fingers wrap around the neck. "At any rate, there are more immediate needs that require my attention and satisfaction this fine night." That smile again. The form of a smile without the heart of one; the heart of something very different lies in the curve of Ivan's lips. "Perhaps if I am going to help Alfred with his needs, he ought to help me with mine." A longer stroke of the bottle, thumb fondling the open glass mouth.

If Alfred were here, he likely would laugh and the chill would dissipate. But Alfred's not here.

"You ought'nt make jokes in such poor taste," Arthur mutters, watching his fingers rest still against the base of his own glass.

"Who is joking?"

Arthur's eyes snap to Ivan's face. The smile is still there, the cloak slipped to reveal something Arthur chooses not to name. It freezes Arthur's heart.

"Nonsense." Arthur looks away from Ivan; casting about for something to settle his gaze on, he focuses on Alfred's star. A star; it might not be Alfred's, but then it again it might be. "You couldn't possibly—" He breaks off. This is Ivan, and very possibly Ivan _could_.

"There is nothing extraordinary about my needs," Ivan says conversationally. "Surely you experience such needs yourself from time to time, do you not?"

Arthur stares fixedly at the star, even though its wish-granting capability already has been claimed this night. But Arthur knows that a star is not seen best by looking directly, so he focuses on a blank space just off the star, allowing it to shine brighter in his peripheral vision.

"Well," Ivan says, "I will leave you to your stargazing. Good night, Arthur."

As Ivan strides away, his scarf trails behind him, the ends fluttering with his movement in the still air.

"Ivan!"

At the sound of his name, Ivan stops and turns.

"Don't do this," Arthur says. "Alfred—" Ivan's smile stops him before he can say more.

"Alfred," Ivan repeats; he doesn't make more of the sentence either, though he punctuates it with a guttural purr.

"Don't do this," Arthur says again.

"I have needs." Ivan smiles as he shrugs. "I will be satisfied."

There's no spoken threat, no "or else"; that only serves to make the menace all the more real for Arthur. "Ivan," he says, though he doesn't know what else to say.

"Arthur." Ivan pushes back his coat to put his hands in his front pockets, drawing attention to the hint of an erection in the moment before he disguises it. "I require satisfaction. I believe Alfred will satisfy nicely."

"He's drunk," Arthur protests. "He can't consent. He won't understand."

"Ah." Ivan nods. "You are concerned I will rape him. But that is not how one treats allies, Arthur. I know that. I will—what is the word?" He doesn't wait but finds it himself: "Reciprocate."

If Ivan's words are intended to ease Arthur's mind (a hypothesis Arthur doubts), they do not have the intended effect. For if Alfred doesn't understand what's happening to him, then whether he is the one touching or the one being touched will make no difference. Besides, Arthur is unsure precisely what Ivan means by "reciprocate." He doesn't think he wants to know.

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur hears the undercurrent whine of desperation in his words.

Ivan's smile curves up in symmetry a little more. "I believe I have made that clear," he says patiently.

"Why Alfred?" Arthur blurts out.

"Why not Alfred?" Ivan counters.

They look at each other silently.

"Satisfaction and comradeship," Ivan says. "These are two of the finest things in life. Am I wrong to wish to share them with our friend?" He smiles. Smiles that fucking _smile_.

Arthur swallows.

"Perhaps you wish me to share them with _you_, Arthur?" The smile stays in place as Ivan tilts his head. "Or," he adds as if he's suddenly thought of it, though Arthur feels certain that this is where Ivan has been steering the conversation all along, "perhaps _you_ wish to share these things with him yourself?"

Arthur's dread deepens, dropping into his chest to squeeze around his lungs. _What are you saying?_, he wants to ask. But the fist of his horror chokes off his breath and all he manages is, "No."

"No?" Ivan's brow arches in the semblance of surprise. "You have no wish to fuck America?"

Arthur cannot answer because he refuses to think about the question.

"I am only trying to help you, Comrade." As Ivan's smile seems to soften, the dread in the pit of Arthur's stomach hardens. "I am only helping you get what you want. Is that not what our alliance is about? Cooperation for the achievement of mutual goals?"

Arthur gets his tongue unstuck. "What are you talking about?"

"I saw the way you looked at him the other day, when you were watching the clouds."

This new smile tells Arthur that Ivan knows his observation of them went undetected. Arthur tries to disguise the physical jerk of his reaction by pretending he was only leaning forward for his glass. He wonders when else Ivan has spied on them, what else he has seen and heard and what other bizarre conclusions he has drawn. But there isn't time to contemplate any of that because Ivan is continuing:

"You have looked at him before, but on that day I saw how you wanted his cock in your mouth, and yet you could not touch his lips with your own; you could not even touch his hand with your own. The more you want to touch him, I think, the less you are able."

The glasses they have borrowed from their host are of an excellent quality; the one in Arthur's hand does not shatter when his fingers try to convulse into a fist around it. He bites down hard on the bile that wells up from his throat, choking off any words he might say. He knows he should get up and walk away now, but he doesn't trust his body not to betray him with the shaking he feels.

If he has noticed the effect of his words, Ivan feigns oblivion. "I could, mmm." He pauses to search for the word he wants. "Unflower? Deflower. Yes, I could deflower him for you, if you are worried about being the one to hurt him. The first time always hurts, no matter how careful one is, no?"

Arthur's shaking, frozen by Ivan's smile, crystallizes as it courses through his blood; his very veins feel as if they might shatter.

"Or do you want to be the one, his first? This is important to you, I think. Then shall I hold him down for you in case he starts to struggle?"

Silent and still, Arthur can only stare.

"Ah, but you seem to have an aversion to the idea of me touching him, don't you? Yes." Ivan raises his hand in a loosely curled fist, bowing his head to rest his chin against it as he stands thinking. "Perhaps, then, it will be better if I simply stand with a gun trained on you? That way," his smile tells lies of solicitude, "if he does not like it, you can say you were forced." Ivan's hand falls away from his face, pushing back the coat even more so Arthur can see the pistol tucked into his waistband.

Arthur knows he must speak. He must say no, if nothing else. He tries to, but his mouth has gone so dry that the word, scraping across his tongue, dies before it can reach his lips. The dryness crackles down his throat, into his lungs, threatening to suffocate him. Desperately, he reaches for the bottle of port. Thawed, his shaking returns; he's heating up so badly that his bones and muscles are in danger of liquefying, and he can't hold the bottle straight. Wine spills down the side of his glass, spreads wetly and darkly across the table.

The barrel of Ivan's pistol—Arthur sees now that it's a Tula Tokarev 33—comes into view, touching the bottle so the mouth is aimed properly at the glass, which fills with wine now. Arthur doesn't look at Ivan, doesn't thank him. He lifts the glass to lips and tips his head back, downing the contents without tasting them.

The relief he feels as he drinks is cut short when something cold touch the hollow of his throat. Cold and too unyielding to be flesh: it is not Ivan touching him, but the pistol. The chill cuts through the haze of alcohol.

Head still tilted back, Arthur doesn't move as the metallic touch grazes up his throat, along the underside of his jaw. "Arthur, Arthur. This repression cannot be healthy."

Then Ivan's voice is lower, his face closer. The muzzle of the gun nuzzles behind Arthur's ear as Ivan whispers into it, "Or was I right before? Is it that you desire my attentions for yourself?"

Although he knows the pistol is at his head, Arthur feels as though it is pressed against his adam's apple. He can't swallow. His lips move soundlessly.

Ivan reads the silent word. "No? So then we are decided that Alfred—"

"_No!_" The force of the word generates enough heat to unfreeze Arthur. He turns his head. He knows what he has to do, but he can't bring himself to kiss Ivan's mouth. Instead, he touches his lips to the barrel of Ivan's gun.

Eyes closed, Arthur presses a trail of kisses along the barrel. He feels it move and follows it; the new angle is easier on his neck. When he reaches the muzzle, he hesitates just long enough for a deep breath before kissing the opening.

Pulling back, Arthur slits his eyes open to direct his mouth to his target; when his tongue touches the underside of the barrel, just above the trigger, Arthur closes them again. He licks the length of the trigger guard back to the muzzle: this time he kisses it open-mouthed, lips parted so his tongue can trace the metal rim. He goes down on the too-cold, too-smooth length, slicking it with his tongue, mindful of his teeth—he doesn't want to risk losing one by leaving a scratch on the polished surface.

As Arthur continues to fellate the TT-33, he feels Ivan's fingers threading into his hair. "Very well," Ivan says softly. With a sharp tug he pulls Arthur off the pistol, gets him to his feet—and then, though Arthur wished to avoid it, Ivan's lips are on him and Ivan's tongue is in his mouth.

Arthur makes himself a statue—but Ivan's tongue, skillful and insistent, coaxes him to respond in ways he doesn't wish: twining, licking, breathing. Mouth fitted over Arthur's, Ivan breathes into the kiss, into Arthur; when he inhales, he takes back his breath and Arthur's with it, making the world behind Arthur's closed eyes go even blacker, making it spin strangely and then stop spinning altogether.

And then there is light again: the moon, the stars, Alfred's star amongst them. There is light and breath, and Ivan smiling.

Ivan's smiling mouth says something Arthur doesn't catch. Although Arthur has his breath again, he doesn't have words yet. Ivan seems to understand the look anyhow, and repeats, "We should exercise discretion, Comrade. Anyone could see us out here." He gestures expansively.

Yes. Anyone (_Alfred_) could see them. Arthur nods.

"Perhaps you will care to join me in my room?" Ivan suggests.

Mutely, Arthur nods again.

Ivan smiles.

They enter the house together; together they climb the stairs. When Arthur stumbles in the corridor outside Ivan's room, Ivan catches and rights him.

"You are drunk."

"No," Arthur says. He may have had more than his fair share of wine tonight, but he knows what inebriation feels like, and this is not that. Arthur has a strange sense that Ivan did more than take his breath away with that kiss: he took Arthur's spin, his center of gravity, the way he orients to the earth's rotation. Ivan let Arthur have his breath back, but the spin that was returned to Arthur does not feel like his own.

"Arthur," Ivan says seriously. He is not smiling, and Arthur doesn't know whether to feel reassured or more concerned by that. "You made it very clear to me that I should not touch Alfred tonight because he is drunk. Oh yes," he waves off Arthur's protest peremptorily, "there are other reasons. But that is one of the things you said, yes?"

He appears to be waiting, so Arthur nods.

"I think _you_ also are drunk, my friend. Just a little bit."

Arthur's mind fumbles for the implications. If he says he is drunk, as Ivan wants, it's possible Ivan will argue that Alfred is in a similar state and therefore fair game. If he does not admit to a state of intoxication, it's possible Ivan will say that Alfred—who knows he's drunk—is more clear-minded and therefore a better candidate.

Arthur feels defeated. "Tell me what to say."

Ivan's brows arch. "I only want you to tell me that this is what you want. You have impressed upon me that I must be sure of your understanding and consent. So do you understand, Arthur? Do you consent?"

Alfred's room is two doors down. Arthur understands. "Yes."

With a smile, Ivan turns the knob and holds the door open for him.

Inside, Ivan sits in one of the Louis XV armchairs; rather than seat himself in the matching chair, Arthur remains stood in the middle of the room. He meets Ivan's smiling gaze with a stoic one of his own.

"But where are my manners," Ivan says. His voice is soft, but the suddenness of his words makes Arthur twitch. "I should offer you a drink."

"Thank you, no."

"Music, perhaps? I believe there is a gramophone in the corner cupboard. A Victrola. I am sure I could find a recording to put on."

"Don't trouble yourself on my account," Arthur says. "Thank you."

Ivan sits back in the chair, hands curving around the ends of the armrests. "Surely there is something you would like. Tell me what it is."

Arthur wonders if there is an end to the impossible words that come from Ivan's smiling mouth. He forces himself not to shift. "What would _you_ like, Ivan?"

"I think I would like you to undress for me. Slowly."

Despite the flush coloring his face, Arthur holds Ivan's gaze steadily as he undoes his belt and lets it drop to the floor, then shrugs out of his jacket one arm at a time. He lets that fall to the floor as well; he can have it pressed in the morning. Still holding the gaze, he loosens his tie and slips it off over his head. This he tosses at Ivan, who catches it one-handed with a laugh. It has the form of flirtation but it is empty, and Arthur's heart is anything but light.

He looks down as he removes his cufflinks, carefully stowing them in the front pocket of his trousers. His fingers feel thicker than usual, but Arthur doesn't want Ivan to offer assistance, so he concentrates on getting each button through its hole as he moves down his shirt front.

Words fill the space left between them by the broken gaze. "I hope you will not object to a little conversation. I said I wished to share comradeship, and conversation is a part of that—would you not say so?"

Arthur doesn't look up. He feels that Ivan will have whatever conversation is in his mind whether Arthur wants it or not. "Yes," he says, popping another button free. "Fine."

"Fine," Ivan agrees. He pauses as if trying to come up with a topic, but when he speaks again, Arthur's suspicion that Ivan had something in mind before he requested conversation grows stronger. "Would you like to hear the wish I think our comrade Alfred made upon the star?"

Arthur decidedly does not want to hear this. "Do tell."

As he works on the next button, he can hear the smile in Ivan's pause. Then Ivan says, "You remember what you told me—that it will be dangerous for those who miscalculate Alfred?"

Arthur offers no response this time; this time Ivan doesn't seem to require one, because he goes on, "But I believe you are guilty of that yourself, Arthur. I do not believe you were correct about his wish. Alfred is as capable of selfishness as anyone else. Alfred—like me, like you, like anyone—has needs. Desires."

Weary of asking what Ivan is talking about, Arthur says nothing. Although the last button has come free, Arthur doesn't remove his shirt; head down, he watches his hands move to the fastening of his trousers.

"Did I not tell you I have seen the way you look at each other?"

Arthur looks up sharply.

"Ah. No." Ivan nods to himself. "I only mentioned the way you look at him, not the way he looks at you. And how would you know, if you are not told?" Solicitous; condescending. "He only looks at you like that when you are not looking at him, just as you hide away your looks from him."

Ivan leans forward in the chair. "Then let me tell you now: he looks at you like he would take you to his bed. He looks like he _does_—when he is in his bed, his eyes closed, his fingers around his cock."

Arthur pushes away the image Ivan's words put in his mind. But Ivan is still talking:

"Do you think he calls your name when he comes in his hand, Arthur?"

Arthur does not so much meet Ivan's gaze as he finds himself trapped in it.

"That is what I think. In fact, I am sure of it."

"Don't," Arthur chokes out before he catches himself. He won't beg Ivan; he won't let Ivan see his squirm. He tries forcing nonchalance into his voice: "Don't be ridiculous." His fingers feel too unsteady to work the button of his trousers, so he starts slipping out of his undone shirt. He doesn't know if his tone has succeeded, but he keeps going anyhow. "I never knew you had such a fanciful imagination."

A chuckle escapes Ivan. "Oh, it is not my imagination! I know of the repression you suffer from, Arthur, but surely you are not unaware of the. How to say this?"

Naked to the waist now, Arthur decides not to leave his jacket on the floor, after all, and bends to retrieve it as Ivan searches for words.

"The 'special' relationship between the two of you," Ivan says after a moment. "The way Alfred finds ways to aid you, even when his people have said no. The way he bends his rules for you, remakes his laws for you. Not for anyone else does he do such things. Do you deny this?"

A surge of anger steadies Arthur. Shirt in one hand and jacket in the other, he denies nothing as he walks to the other chair to drape his clothing over the back. Deny it? Of course he doesn't deny it. But Ivan is twisting the facts into a conclusion to which Arthur cannot agree. He kicks off his shoes. While the adrenaline has steadied his motor control enough that he's now able to unfasten his trousers, he doesn't trust his voice to be clear of tremors, so he remains silent as he steps out of them.

When Arthur drapes the trousers over the back of the chair, the cufflinks tumble out of the pocket and onto the carpet. As he straightens from picking them up, his head smacks the corner of the nearby desk. He clenches his jaw against the curses that want to trip off his tongue and merely raises his free hand to rub at his bruised skull.

Ivan's hand touches his, causing Arthur to inhale sharply; he didn't hear Ivan move or feel him approach. As he starts to look up into the other man's face, he suddenly feels unwell. He doesn't think he hit his head hard enough to cause concussion, but he feels like he may be sick. If he has to look into that godforsaken smile of Ivan's, Arthur feels sure he _will_ be—but he can't stop himself from looking.

For the second time tonight, Ivan is not smiling.

The sick feeling lurches in Arthur's stomach anyhow, rises up as bile in his throat, sticking at the base.

Wordlessly, Ivan takes Arthur's hand in both of his; with a caress, he draws out the cufflinks, then turns to place them on the desk.

"But I am being rude," Ivan says as he turns back to Arthur, who is still holding his head. "You have not chosen Alfred's bed tonight. You have chosen mine. You _have_ chosen this, have you not?"

Arthur has not chosen anything.

No, that's not true. Arthur can't tell that lie, even to himself. Especially not to himself. He has chosen Alfred.

He reaches for the end of Ivan's scarf and begins to unwind it.

As Arthur uncoils the fabric from around Ivan's neck, Ivan's hand slips between them, his forefinger curling under Arthur's chin and lifting it so Arthur must close his eyes or meet Ivan's. He chooses the latter—and then in the next moment, Arthur finds his eyes closing as Ivan's mouth descends upon him.

That dizzying feeling comes over Arthur again as Ivan kisses him. The sick tilt to the world's spin causes him to lose his balance and he falls against Ivan. Even with Ivan's arms around him, Arthur doesn't feel steadied. The spin is worse, and he has to clutch at Ivan to keep himself from falling more. Moving lower to cup Arthur's arse, Ivan pulls Arthur onto his tiptoes as the kiss goes on. Ivan's hands slide up to find the waistband of Arthur's pants, then push it down to his thighs so Ivan can knead his bare skin. Feeling Ivan shift against his naked cock, Arthur breaks the kiss to bite his own lip so that he won't bite Ivan's.

Ivan rubs a thumb across Arthur's lower lip. Gaze locked with Arthur's, one arm still 'round him, Ivan brings the thumb to his mouth and licks away the smear of blood. Then he smiles.

"I will return. Please, my friend, make yourself comfortable."

When Ivan leaves Arthur and heads to the bathroom, Arthur yields to the heavy tug of gravity, sinking down where he's stood. He manages to untangle his pants, sliding them off and kicking them free before tucking his legs to himself again.

He looks up when Ivan's feet, naked, come into view. He looks up Ivan's naked body, barely pausing long enough to register that Ivan's cock is proportionate to his body, catching a glimpse of the tube in Ivan's hand; Arthur's gaze goes up and up until he reaches Ivan's face. Ivan's naked smile.

"I see you did not choose my bed, after all, but my floor."

It's a strange time for a joke, and Arthur doesn't manage even a smile in return.

Ivan doesn't seem to mind, though. "Are you cold?"

It's not the temperature that makes Arthur want to shiver. Suppressing the instinct, he shakes his head.

"Then let us take these off, yes?" Ivan straightens Arthur's leg as he draws one of Arthur's feet to his lap to remove the sock. Arthur flushes, embarrassed to have overlooked such a detail. There's a queer gentleness to the way Ivan rolls the sock down and pulls it off that seems at odds with so much about the man, so much about this night. He's being as careful with Arthur as one would with a child.

The image of a very small, very blond colony with wide blue eyes and a wider smile, holding up his bare foot to have a sock put on it, comes—very unbidden—to Arthur's mind. He shakes his head as if he can remove the memory physically from the fore of his mind.

Arthur watches Ivan remove the other sock. Then Ivan cups both of Arthur's calves; there's a sharp tug, and Arthur finds himself on his back, his ankles on Ivan's shoulders. Still holding one of Arthur's feet, Ivan trusts Arthur to keep his other foot in place as he reaches for the tube he brought back from the bathroom. He squeezes out a generous dollop onto two fingertips. Arthur expects Ivan to shove the fingers inside him without prelude, so he's surprised when Ivan merely touches his arsehole. Although the coolness of the slick touch is not a surprise, Arthur hears himself inhale.

Ivan must have heard it too, because his eyes find Arthur's as he continues to tease Arthur's hole. Arthur meets Ivan's gaze as evenly as he can, concentrating on keeping his breathing regular, on not struggling or squirming or telling Ivan to just stick his fucking fingers inside already. He bites down on the words, catching his lip with his teeth again.

It's Ivan's turn to breathe audibly; disconcertingly, he does it while smiling, so Arthur can't be sure whether it's a sound of arousal or if Ivan is laughing at him—or both, perhaps. He bites down harder, tastes blood.

His ankles slip from Ivan's shoulders as Ivan leans forward, forcing Arthur's thighs wider as he stretches himself between them to lick Arthur's lip.

Face a hair's breadth from Arthur's, Ivan murmurs, "Shall I get my knife?"

Arthur's breath jerks, but he makes no other response.

Still hovering over Arthur, Ivan pushes himself back so they can see each other. "You have a liking for bloodplay, yes?" He smiles.

Arthur does not wish to discuss his likings with Ivan. "No," he says.

"No?"

"Look," Arthur takes a risk, "I just want—can we get on with it, please?"

Ivan's eyebrows arch, his smile widens. "You are eager now?"

Arthur turns his face to the side. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do. He just can't look into that smiling face.

"All right," Ivan says softly. Arthur feels him shift back—and then forward again; something is pressed into his palm, his fingers folded around it. He opens his hand and finds himself holding the small tube. "Prepare yourself, Comrade."

Making no move to sit up, Arthur coats his fingers, then reaches down between his legs and presses them inside himself. When he glances at Ivan, their eyes don't meet; Ivan is focused on Arthur's fingers, on Arthur's arsehole being stretched by those fingers. Shifting his gaze, Arthur sees Ivan stroking his own cock slick. Arthur closes his eyes.

Blindly he withdraws his fingers to give them another coat of lubricant before resuming. The nap of the carpet against his back is not the most comfortable, but in the quiet and dark behind his closed eyelids, it's not so bad.

"You are falling asleep, I think."

Arthur's eyes snap open at the sound of Ivan's voice. "No." He forces himself not to look away as Ivan regards him.

"Then you are ready now? We will fuck?"

Arthur runs his tongue over his tender lower lip, unwilling to draw blood just at this moment. "Yes."

"Excellent. Do you want it like this?" Ivan inquires in a tone that Arthur can only classify as polite.

Not to be out-civilized, Arthur says, "I defer to your preference."

"In that case," Ivan says as he moves back, "I have a liking for English bulldogs."

Arthur feels himself flush, but he doesn't look away. Even though Ivan has given him room, Arthur remains still.

When Arthur continues to lie there, Ivan says, "That is—"

"I know what it is," Arthur cuts him off. He pushes up on his elbows and turns himself over. Curling his hands into fists, he sets them on the carpet, knuckles facing in towards each other, elbows bent out slightly; as the position calls for, his knees are pressed together, a mockery of chastity. Head hanging down, he looks at his own thighs flush together. At least he can't see Ivan through his legs this way.

Arthur can still feel him, though: Ivan's inner thighs brush the outside of Arthur's as he kneels, his cock resting against Arthur's arse.

Once more, Arthur closes his eyes. He still feels Ivan, of course. He feels it when Ivan takes him by the hips, hands spanning Arthur's arse as Ivan's thumbs reach towards each other, meeting at his hole, pulling him open, probing. Arthur forces back down the sound that tries to rise from the back of his throat.

"A little wider, I think."

Arthur is about to snap out that Ivan is the one controlling his arse, when he feels the knees next to his skate out. With a thankful blush that he didn't say anything so stupid, Arthur widens his own stance.

Holding Arthur open with one hand, Ivan uses his other to guide his cockhead to Arthur's hole. The press in is slow and agonizing. Arthur prides himself that his tongue sweeps over his lip before a single drop of blood can hit the carpet.

Ivan's cockhead has barely breached Arthur when he stops. "You don't want this."

The words are flat, but Arthur suspects Ivan wants a response nonetheless. "I do."

"Then why are you fighting me, Comrade? Why are you pushing me out?"

Arthur wants to protest that he isn't—but he's been focused on his teeth in his lip, not on relaxing his muscle, so maybe Ivan is right. Arthur didn't anticipate having to work; he thought Ivan would just shove in, regardless of resistance. He didn't know Ivan was expecting not just compliance from him in this act, but _complicity_.

Letting his cockhead slip out, Ivan says, "Perhaps I should get my gun, since you seem to prefer that touch?"

Arthur's teeth tear his lip a little more as he imagines the muzzle of TT-33 pressed where Ivan's cock has just been. "No," he rasps out before licking at his bloodied lip.

"Arthur," a menace of patience drips from Ivan's words, "I think you will have to tell me, in no uncertain terms, what it is that you want."

It occurs to Arthur that Ivan must be in love with impossibilities. That's why he acts the way he does in the world. That's why he can't stop saying the things he's saying tonight, and why he expects Arthur to say impossible things as well.

No, not impossible. This is possible; Arthur can do this. And he will, for Alfred.

"You." He forces himself to unclench his jaw so the words don't strangle, so he won't have to say them again: "Your cock. Fuck me, Ivan."

Ivan's words are deceptively soft; Arthur can hear that deceptive smile in them: "That is what I wanted to hear, Arthur. I hope you will be as pleased with your choice as I am."

Then, before Arthur has a chance to consider those words, Ivan is spreading him apart again, pushing inside again. Arthur closes his eyes again, and again his teeth dig into his lip, but this time Arthur concentrates on the muscles in his arse, willing himself to relax, relax, _bloody relax goddamnit, do it for Alfred_; flash of Alfred, safe in his bed, lips parted just a little in sleep—

And Ivan is inside him.

With a grunt he can't quite contain, Arthur opens his eyes. Ivan is deep inside him, in to the hilt, unmoving; Arthur can feel the brush of Ivan's sac where it rests against the lower curve of his arse. It doesn't hurt, exactly, though there's a burn to the stretch.

As the burn subsides and Ivan continues to hold still, Arthur feels the pressure of Ivan's cock more keenly, filling the stretch and stretching him more even as it fills him. It's like being fisted with a cock. Arthur chokes off his rising whine, swallowing hard several times. He wants to move his legs apart, but he's trapped by Ivan's on either side of his. Swallowing alone can't contain the new whine that rises up: Arthur has to use his entire body to control it, rocking on his hands and knees to keep the sound in his throat.

As soon as Arthur moves, Ivan pulls out only to push back in, starting a rhythm of thrusts. And now Arthur understands why Ivan was still before: he wants Arthur's assistance in his own undoing.

Even Ivan's grip forces Arthur to acknowledge his own part in this: the fingers on his hips are strong, firm, but not vicious; if Arthur wants to get up, the fingers suggest, they will not try to stop him. They will let him go; they will find other hips to close over.

_Alfred_. In the dark behind Arthur's closed eyelids, an image flickers into focus: Alfred, stretched out in sleep, lying on his back with one arm flung out, the bedclothes tangled 'round his legs. Did he manage to undress before he fell into bed, or is he still in that bomber jacket of his? Surely it would be too warm to sleep in such a thing, even though he's insisted on wearing it during the day just as Ivan has insisted on the long coat and scarf—

Rocked forward by Ivan's next thrust, Arthur's hand slips on the carpet, his elbow bending more before he locks it to stop the slide. One of Ivan's hands goes 'round his waist, holding him up as he gets his hand under himself again. The rhythm of Ivan's cock never stops.

The cinematic image of Alfred flickers again in Athur's mind as Alfred's lips part for a deep sigh before he rolls onto his side. _Yes, look away, Alfred._

As he lets Alfred sink deeper into peaceful slumber, Arthur becomes aware of a steady stream of words behind him. They're indistinct and he tries to tune them out again; he doesn't want to know if Ivan thinks he's a good fuck or not. He doesn't want to know if Ivan is dirty talking him or sweet talking him—which for Ivan could be the same thing. Arthur doesn't want to know if Ivan's words are about what's going on in this room or what's going on in the world, if they're about the war or this conference or the fucking flapping of a butterfly's fucking wings in Peking.

He can't tune out Ivan's cock, though. It's not just the overwhelming fullness, the sheer size of the thing. Ivan knows how to _use_ it. He fucks like he kisses, skillful, expert; breath-taking. Arthur can't hold back a gasp for air as Ivan's cock drags across the bundle of his nerve endings, but he does fight his arch, only hunching his shoulders and letting his head drop more. Ivan's cock won't break Arthur, but it does break his concentration, opening the way for Ivan's words, dirty-sweet talk, to seep into Arthur.

When Arthur sucks in another desperate mouthful of air, Ivan says, "How are you liking this?"

Arthur's gritted teeth aren't enough to stop his words. "I would like it more if you would shut up."

He expects a rumble of laughter, but it doesn't come. Nothing does. They continue to fuck in silence.

Ivan's sexual talent is undeniable—or at least Arthur's traitorous body is having a hard time denying it. A cold wave of guilt rolls through him, momentarily pushing back the heat as he realizes he's becoming the thing he most despises: a collaborator.

As the heat starts to rise again, a sound escapes Arthur, unspoken loathing and unspeakable pleasure mingled together. It makes Arthur tear his lip with his teeth; as he feels the spill of his blood, he wonders if it's making Ivan smile. He almost wants to look over his shoulder to see.

Before he can, Arthur finds himself pulled upright against Ivan's torso. The hands on his hips move to rearrange their legs so that now Arthur's are on the outside as he sits in Ivan's lap, Ivan's cock still seated deep inside him. Ivan's hand moves to Arthur's cock, his mouth moves to Arthur's ear. Arthur feels Ivan's breath against his skin.

Ivan's fingers feather along Arthur's cock, making him choke on another inhale, before wrapping around his base. "Show me how to do it so that you will enjoy it."

The voice is so low, so soft, the accent almost disappears and it could be anyone inside him, holding him, murmuring to him. Not Ivan. Anyone. Just anyone.

Arthur takes a breath. Lets it out. Takes another, looks at the hand on his cock, and with his next inhale he covers that hand with his own.

He brings the fingers—his own and the other's—down to his balls. He shows this other, this anyone how to fondle him, how to tug so that Arthur's head falls back and a deep shuddering sigh escapes him. Anyone's hands are pliant in Arthur's, compliant, eager to learn his body, his cock, his rhythms. So eager, so willing, so fucking gentle. Almost too gentle, and Arthur shows Anyone that it's okay not to be so gentle, that it's okay to touch here, and here, and lower, deeper, _there_—and in that dark place inside his mind, Arthur sees Alfred still in the bomber jacket but nothing else, the jacket open so Arthur feels Alfred's bare skin against his back as Alfred holds him, fingerfucks him and fists his cock and Arthur cries his name as he comes—

"Alfred." Arthur whispers the name this time as Ivan releases him and he falls forward on hands and knees again.

Ivan's silence as he leaves Arthur there is a small mercy.

The world is shifting out of phase around Arthur as he remains on the floor. After a moment, when he hears water running in the bathroom, he gets himself to his feet, dresses, and leaves.

As Arthur passes it, he notices that Alfred's door is cracked open. He finds the knob and pulls it shut before continuing to his own room.

  
The next morning, Arthur ignores the sun as it presses in through the cracks between the curtains. He also ignores the knocks on his door.

But he can't ignore the world all day, so he finally rises from the bed, bathes, dresses, and goes out to find his boss.

The first person he sees isn't his boss. It's Alfred.

Without waiting to see if Alfred has seen him at the other end of the corridor, Arthur turns around. He winds his way through the manor until he finds a door out to a balcony. He folds his arms on the railing as he leans on it, looking at the cloudless sky.

"Arthur?"

He should have known Alfred would follow him.

"Arthur, is anything wrong?"

"Everything's fine," Arthur says. He meant to say Alfred's name at the end there, but it wouldn't cross his lips and the end of the sentence has an odd sound. He casts a sidelong glance, and from the corner of his eye he sees Alfred nod. Arthur looks into the clear blue of the sky again.

After a moment, Arthur hears the intake of breath that usually precedes speech—but Alfred doesn't say anything.

"Did you want something?" Arthur wishes he didn't sound so clipped, impatient. But perhaps it's just as well; he doesn't think he can handle a conversation with Alfred just now.

"I wanted to ask you—I was wondering about you and Ivan."

Arthur feels his jaw work with a swallow as he continues staring into the sky, hardly seeing the blue. He tells himself not to make assumptions about what Alfred knows. Composing his voice into a semblance of neutrality, he says, "What about us?"

"Last night," Alfred says, "was that something to cement the alliance? Or was it, you know, personal?"

Arthur stares fixedly at nothing. He remembers Ivan's words last night on the terrace: _"Anyone could see us."_ He wonders if Ivan meant that someone already had. If Alfred saw him with Ivan's pistol…Arthur feels ill.

"I'm sorry," Alfred says. "It's probably none of my business. I just thought, if it was part of the alliance, maybe I should—"

"No." Arthur's voice is rougher than he means it to be, but it can't be helped.

"I'm sorry," Alfred says again. Arthur hears him sigh. "I want you to know I wasn't spying on you. I just saw you kissing on the terrace—"

"What else did you see?"

"Just that. Just a kiss." When Arthur doesn't say anything, Alfred says, "Don't be angry, okay?"

When Arthur doesn't say anything, Alfred turns to go. Arthur watches him take a step away. Then: "Alfred—don't. You needn't leave. I'm not angry."

Alfred turns back. He pushes his glasses up as he studies Arthur's face, his brow furrowing. "You're unhappy, though."

Arthur manages a smile. "Not with you." It's hard to look Alfred in the eye, so Arthur turns away to lean on the balcony railing once more.

"With Ivan?"

Arthur sighs. He can't explain, and he won't lie. He thinks Alfred might walk away again, but after a moment, Alfred folds his arms on the rail and leans beside Arthur against it. Arthur glances down; the distance between their elbows is negligible, almost invisible to the naked eye, but Arthur can feel the space between them.

Coming to a decision, Arthur sighs more deeply this time. "Be careful of Ivan. I know he's our ally, but just—be careful, Alfred." It's not what he means, exactly; it's not all he means, not all he wants to warn Alfred of. But it's all he can manage. He looks over to make sure his words have made an impression. He holds the gaze long enough for Alfred to search his eyes and nod.

Arthur knows Alfred doesn't fully understand, can't possibly, but the nod is enough. He nods in turn, then looks away. He wants to walk away, but he's afraid Alfred will call out to him again, might ask him another question. He turns his head away as if something has caught his eye, pushes off the railing as he shifts his body into alignment, and hopes Alfred won't ask what he's looking at.

Then he feels Alfred's arms come around him from behind, crossing over Arthur's chest, Alfred warm against his back. Arthur looks down at the sleeves of Alfred's bomber jacket, at Alfred's hands folded over him; his own arms hang down, his hands curled into loose, helpless fists.

Alfred is warm. Warmer than the sunshine.

When Arthur makes no move to break his embrace, Alfred says, "We'll be friends after this." Arthur is about to laugh and tell Alfred that of course they'll be friends, he's Alfred's friend right now. But Alfred goes on, "even Ja—even Kiku and Ludwig and Feliciano. We _have_ to be friends. We've all done terrible things, and it may be that I'm going to do something more terrible yet. It might even be more terrible than the camps. More monstrous than anything."

Though Arthur feels a tremor pass through Alfred, Alfred doesn't yield to it. He goes on, "But it won't be unforgivable. We'll have to forgive each other, and—and ourselves. Because we have to live together in this world, don't we, Arthur?"

Arthur's heart is swollen with Alfred's words. None of his own seem adequate.

Moments and moments pass; Arthur doesn't know how many, or if time perhaps is standing still. He stares down at his hands. Watches one of them move up to touch one of Alfred's.

Alfred's fingers lift, separating to welcome Arthur's between them; entwined, they settle again.

Arthur keeps holding on so Alfred will keep holding on. And for long moments they stand like that, wordless, together.


End file.
